


Oblivion

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock skids down the last few steps, the unfamiliar rubber tread of the trainers gripping the stairs more than his usual leather soled shoes. He wants to run. He wants to chase something, some<i>one</i>. He wants to jump out of his own skin and never return. He wants to race to John Watson’s pathetic flat in Southwark and demand he come home. He wants to grab John by the arm and physically haul him out into the fray of crime scenes and gunmen, out into the <i>real</i> world, where he belongs at Sherlock’s side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my small contribution to the missing scenes from HLV. Thanks ever so to the wonderful arianedevere for her transcripts of... _all_ the episodes, really. Thanks also to Lori D for the quick beta!  
>  Rated Mature for language and drug usage. 
> 
> Title borrowed from Bastille

**Oblivion**

 

It is a slow, downhill, slippery slope. In one breath, one heartbeat to go from intense internal pain (chest cavity; low ache just beneath ribs; solar plexus feels constricted, tight, not enough air in the room) to blissful, _beautiful_ oblivion.

All it takes is one syringe, one needle, one proper dose, 7% cocaine and the world tilts brighter and more hollow than ever before. The overwhelming cacophony of adrenaline and addiction and tight, constricting _hurt_ fades into a dull hum of background white noise.

He had told her to wait at the flat; told her he would be home shortly with takeaway and milk, but he’d nearly forgotten all about her as soon as he’d set out into the night. Only one person has ever registered on his internal radar, one person he’s ever bothered inform of his actual plans (most of the time), one unique individual for whom he’d risk life and limb, and that person is no longer in the picture.

It’s been a month. A whole bloody _month_ and Sherlock can feel himself slipping farther and farther into the distance; his hardened shell of strict discipline and cold calculation finally mending itself in the face of such desertion. It’s _inside_ that’s the issue here, now. If he can get inside his skin, if he can burn the ~~heart~~ notion of John Watson out of his subconscious… yes. That will be the answer. The solution to the _actual_ final problem. A seven percent solution, in fact.

The needle is familiar; warm and sharp and everything he thought he’d left behind. It turns out he’s needed it more and more these past few years, but there was always that niggling little voice in the back of his brain (the one that sounds suspiciously like John Watson), that voice sounding overwhelmingly disappointed and critical. If John Watson isn’t going to be around anymore, at least Sherlock has this.

He’s nearly forgotten the head rush. He’s nearly forgotten the immediate feeling of spiraling: limbs heavy and chest light, head pleasantly fuzzy for a few dizzying moments before the fall. He’s suddenly very thirsty, and snatches at the plastic water bottle he’d stashed in his pocket the night before. He downs it all in one go and can feel stray drips of it eeking along his chin; hydrogen and oxygen molecules soaking down the skin of his throat and into the worn cotton of his hoodie in his haste.

He sinks gratefully into it, the trials of the past 24 hours seeming to slide off of his very skin: the buzz of humanity around him, the cloyingly sweet stink of London, the lingering feeling of her lips against his, the sheer disgust of human contact. The tedious, but persistent feeling of his heart clenching every time he thinks of _John_.

He shakes his head, watching as the dim lights of the room leave afterimages behind his lids. He came here to forget, not to dwell on the empty cavity that seems to have carved itself a hole behind his sternum. He sinks down onto the bare mattress, the rough material fascinating beneath his over sensitive fingertips. If he could only focus on the sensations, on the cleansing feeling of being high, he might be able to forget what drove him here in the first place.

He’s not an addict. Well, not in the normal sense of the word. He can stop any time he likes; it’s just so much easier to exist in the world when there’s the promise of oblivion at the end of a needle. He should have chosen the morphine tonight. The cocaine is making his skin quiver with restless agitation. It’s keeping his head clearer instead of allowing him to forget. Why didn’t he choose morphine? Even heroin would have been better than this.

Now he is restless and irritable, his body demanding that he move and run, expel all the energy that has been building up for _years_ it seems. He cannot close his eyes, because every time he does, John’s disapproving face looms beneath his lids: disappointment and regret etched into all the lovely creases of his weathered face. Sherlock feels his breath hitch, and suddenly he’s up, off the sagging mattress and pacing around furiously. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He should have chosen the morphine.

Sherlock skids down the last few steps, the unfamiliar rubber tread of the trainers gripping the stairs more than his usual leather soled shoes. He wants to run. He wants to chase something, some _one_. He wants to jump out of his own skin and never return. He wants to race to John Watson’s pathetic flat in Southwark and demand he come home. He wants to grab John by the arm and physically haul him out into the fray of crime scenes and gunmen, out into the _real_ world, where he belongs at Sherlock’s side.

The pain in his chest redoubles and he grits his teeth against the feeling. His skin is thrumming with energy, but he’s suddenly so fucking _tired_. His knees buckle and he sits on the bottom riser, his body fighting him every single moment.

“Alright, there?”

Sherlock blinks blearily up at the young man (recently split from his girlfriend, history of heart condition, heroin addict, in dire need of a shower and a shave, in considerable credit card debt, abusive father and junkie mother, on guard duty to pay off his last hit). Sherlock sighs and lets his head thump into the banister, then does it again and again, the concussion of sound slightly blocking the constant stream of information.

“Y’alright, mate?” the man asks, raising his voice a little and reaching forward. Sherlock recoils on instinct, suddenly aware of every single point of contact where _she’s_ touched him. Her bare thigh had rested against his last night, and the skin feels raw and filthy. He rubs at the spot beneath his sweats, trying to dislodge the top layer of skin, trying to eradicate any indication of her cells on his. His hand is a blur of motion, all the energy suddenly concentrated into his palm as he rubs frantically at his thigh.

“Oi!” the man says, grabbing at Sherlock’s wrist to stop his manic motions. Sherlock yanks himself back, but the man holds on, shockingly strong. “Fucking junkies,” he grumbles under his breath. “If you take a swing at me, mate, I’ll knock your fucking teeth in. Understand?”

Sherlock freezes, eyes narrowing furiously for a half second before he sags against the stairs.

“There’s a good lad,” the man says, and Sherlock almost laughs. He’s easily got a good ten years on the young man, but he’s in no position to argue. The buzz of the cocaine is making him hyperactive and twitchy. The man twitches in sympathy and lets go of Sherlock’s wrist, plunking himself down onto the riser next to Sherlock as though they’re _friends_.

“So what’s got your knickers in a twist, then, eh?” the man asks, and pulls a packet of fags from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but shrugs. The man holds up the packet in a silent offering and Sherlock gratefully accepts, disentangling one slim stick from the rest and bringing it to his lips. The man flicks a lighter and holds it up for Sherlock. It’s almost companionable, and Sherlock feels a pang of hateful loneliness stab unhelpfully through his chest.

“Oh, the silent type, are you?” the man smirks, taking a drag from his cigarette and puffing the smoke out towards the ceiling. “I’ve seen your lot here before, mate. Dark and brooding and supposedly mysterious and a fucking pain in the collective arse of the nation.”

Sherlock snorts despite himself, the nicotine calming the manic edge of his raw nerves. “If I had a proper coat on, some might say ‘dramatic’.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. The memory of John’s voice _with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool_ a harsh reminder of his pointed absence.

The man snickers and flicks the end of his cigarette. “Yeah. Could see that. Certainly wouldn’t put it past you.”

They sit there, silently smoking their way through the pack of cigarettes in odd companionability. Sherlock doesn’t know how long he sits there, with this strange man who is not John, inhaling carcinogens and nicotine and trying desperately to dispel the thoughts swirling through his brain.

“So what is it you do, then, Mr Dark and Mysterious?”

Before he can stop himself, Sherlock’s loose tongue blurts: “I’m a consulting detective. I work with Scotland Yard.”

“Fuck me, you’re the filth?” The man looks suddenly alarmed, but before he can jump up and alert the rest of the house, Sherlock has him pinned to the stairs, one hand held tightly around his wrist, his other forearm pushing steadily into the man’s windpipe.

“Not one bloody word, _mate_.” Sherlock snarls. “I said I work _with_ them, but I’m certainly not one of them.” The man’s eyes are frightened and strained, and he suddenly looks much, much younger. Sherlock increases the pressure slightly and the man’s eyes bug out as he gasps for air. “I might be high right now, but don’t think I cannot break you with one simple snap of my wrist. If you breathe one word of my true identity, I will _ruin_ you.”

He waits until the man nods shakily before easing back, sitting up and resuming his slumped pose of clear indifference. He plucks another fag from the pack and lights it up casually, as if nothing at all is amiss.

“Fuck,” the man splutters, rubbing at his sore throat and looking at Sherlock now with an air of distinct trepidation. The buzz of adrenaline is still kicking through his blood, and Sherlock’s head feels light and suddenly clear. He ignores the man’s gentle shaking and takes another drag, rolling his eyes.

“Oh relax,” Sherlock drawls, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette. “I’m not here on any kind of bust. I’m here for the same purpose as everyone else: to get high.”

The man edges a little away from him, but he doesn’t leave, which Sherlock considers is brave. Or remarkably stupid. He can’t be bothered right now.

“Bloody hell,” the man croaks, plucking a new cig himself and taking a shaky drag. “What do they call you, then? Over at Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock glares at the man again, pulling focus from his innermost reserves. “Shezza,” he says and smirks dangerously at the alias. The man’s eyes widen slightly and he looks quickly away. “Ah, I see you’ve heard of me,” Sherlock remarks with mild satisfaction.

“Might have done,” the man mumbles, clearly much more on edge than he’s trying to let on.

Sherlock takes a slow drag, watching as the paper ignites and crackles on the end of the cigarette. “So, _mate_ , what exactly have you heard?”

The man looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he bravely squares his shoulders and looks into Sherlock’s eyes. “I heard you can tell a man’s entire history from the state of his trousers, and that sometimes you help get people out of trouble.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, but the man continues, “But most of the time, you’re in more trouble than out of it.” He pauses for a moment and takes a long look at Sherlock. “Hang on. Haven’t I seen you in the papers?”

Sherlock’s eyes flash with warning, and the man shrinks back slightly. “No offense meant, mate,” he says hastily, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture. “Just making conversation.”

Sherlock can feel the high ebbing slightly, his brain becoming clearer as the world begins to focus more. He’s beginning to itch for another hit, and his fingers twitch slightly around his nearly spent fag.

“Coming down now, are you?” the man says mildly, nodding towards Sherlock’s slightly trembling hand. “I’m sure the adrenaline didn’t help your metabolism.” Sherlock feels his eyebrows lift. “Well,” the man continues, looking slightly uncomfortable, but boldly going on, “You’re twitchy like you want another fix, and your pupils are starting to widen. As the light hasn’t changed in the room and I highly doubt you fancy me, you’re clearly coming down. Also, your pulse is slowing and you’re starting to sweat. It’s not difficult to see.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmurs, tossing the butt of his cigarette over the banister. “What else can you see?”

“Well,” the man shifts a little, but stubbornly squares his shoulders again. “You’re obviously not the usual crowd we get in a place like this. You might look scruffy, but your accent and haircut say public school, and I noticed the rather larger wad of quid in your wallet when you came in last night, which means you clearly hold a lucrative job that should allow you the best of the best if it’s coke you’re after, which you obviously are.” Sherlock can feel the corner of his mouth twitching, but he nods for the man to continue.

“You don’t snort the shit, or your nostrils would be all fucked up, so clearly you’re used to injecting. I can see from your arm that you haven’t used in a while, but your older track marks indicate you’ve used before. You came in with a purpose, and it wasn’t just to get high. You’re trying to forget,” the man says, his eyes hard and suddenly far too perceptive. “But your drug of choice isn’t letting you, and it’s making you self-destructive and irritable.”

Sherlock feels his jaw clench, but he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, trying to shrug off the man’s strangely accurate deduction. So this is what it’s like on the other end.

“Very good,” Sherlock says eventually, and the man preens a little, clearly pleased with himself. “Has anyone ever taught you deductive reasoning?”

“Deductive what?” the man asks, obviously more relaxed now that it’s clear Sherlock isn’t about to attack him again.

“Reasoning. Your observational skills are above the majority of idiots.” The man’s brow furrows, as if he can’t tell if it’s an insult or not. “You might prove useful if necessary.”

There’s only three cigarettes left in the pack, and Sherlock needs another fix. He stands slowly and feels in his pockets for his wallet, pulling out a tenner and holding it out to the man. “Thanks for the smokes,” he says, and doesn’t fight the tight smile that tugs at his lips.

“No trouble, mate,” the man says, taking the note and pocketing it without a word. “You go get back on upstairs and see if you can’t find yourself something to forget. I’ll hold down this end,” he nods towards the front door.

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” Sherlock says wryly, noting with disgust that his knees are starting to shake worryingly. His skin feels like it’s crawling and he can feel the cramps beginning in his lower abdomen.

“Go on, then,” the man says, standing himself and getting out of the way. He seems to pause a moment before he clears his throat, “Whoever he is, I hope he was worth it.”

Sherlock stills, the ache in his chest suddenly crippling. He looks back down the stairs at the man, who is watching him evenly. “ _He_?” Sherlock says with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Obviously,” the man smirks, and then he’s turning back to the door, his stride a little shaky, but solid and final.

 _Obviously_ , Sherlock thinks. He wonders what John is doing at this very moment, now the early hours of morning. He can see the milky light of dawn seeping between the boarded up windows and wonders if he should head home, but then remembers _she’s_ there and trudges up the stairs instead. 221B doesn’t feel like home anymore, and in this state, he cannot trust himself to stay there without doing something regrettably stupid. He’s already had to remove that damned armchair because staring at it sitting there _without John_ had made his chest ache and his breathing irrationally harsh. He hadn’t wanted _her_ fouling it up with her sickeningly sweet perfume and her overly feminine body.

He stumbles through the door and over to the corner, where the promise of oblivion beckons with gleaming syringes and beautifully white powder. If he can’t be with John, he doesn’t want to be anywhere. Anyway, the man at the door has his back, if nobody else does. That thought hurts more than it should, but he’s here to forget.

He flashes some cash towards the girl in charge and retrieves his prize, appropriating his former mattress. He doesn’t recall there being this many people in the room earlier, but he was not exactly paying much attention at the time. He forces himself to observe everyone before setting up the needle, his hands shaking slightly at the prospect of more.

He can sleep this off a little, and then get back to the flat. Hopefully by that time the rumors will have spread enough to reach Magnussen, and he can forget about cocaine again, at least for a while. Perhaps he might even forget about John, though that seems to be an impossible task.

The needle in his arm is barely noticeable, but he can feel the heat of the drug seeping through his veins, clouding his vision and making his head swim. He collapses onto the mattress and closes his eyes, trying desperately to ignore the sound of John’s voice telling him he’s better than this. If John were really here, he wouldn’t be placating him with gentle scolding and desperate begging; he would probably shout a lot and Sherlock would end up with a bloody nose at the very least.

He smiles a little at the notion and sinks into blissful silence.

He wakes an hour later to the sound of John’s voice again, clearer than before and he inwardly groans at his masochistic subconscious. He came here to _forget_ John bloody Watson, not to have his goddamned voice ringing in his head. He should have chosen morphine.

John’s voice is subtle; low and rumbling and positively gorgeous. It feels like a balm over Sherlock’s heart, and he cringes against the romantic notion. John Watson is not his, and he never really was. The fact that he’s gone shouldn’t be as big a blow as it is.

“Dr Watson?” the boy to his left croaks, and Sherlock’s eyes open wide. He winces in the light, but remains entirely still, suddenly wide awake. His pulse is racing, and it has nothing to do with the cocaine still buzzing sluggishly through his veins.

“Yep,” John’s voice says steadily, and Sherlock feels his chest expand with repressed emotion. He shudders at the onslaught of chemicals: serotonin and oxytocin and dopamine rushing through his system and combating the cocaine for dominance.

“Did you come here for me?” the boy says blearily, and Sherlock holds his breath.  

“D’you think I know a lot of people here?” John says with a self-deprecating tone Sherlock doesn’t like at all.

He can tell from the shuffling noises and small grunts of exertion that John is helping heft the boy up off the mattress, and Sherlock begins to panic. John is finally _here_ with him after a whole sodding _month_ and he cannot, _cannot_ let him leave.

Before he can overthink it, he rolls onto his side. “Oh, hello John.” He is irrationally proud of how steady his voice is, while internally, it feels as though his heart is trying to beat itself through his ribs and onto the floor. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he adds honestly.

John turns slowly and glares at him with a look of shocked bemusement before his face morphs cleanly into self-righteous, barely contained rage. It is stunningly beautiful, and Sherlock cannot help the small smile that forces its way forward.

“Did you come for me too?”

“You--” John starts, teeth gritted and face turning a blotchy purple. His hand balls into a tight fist and Sherlock braces himself for the blow he knows is coming. Instead, John turns back to the boy and says evenly and dangerously calm: “Go downstairs. Mary has the car. We’ll be there in just a moment.”

Sherlock takes the opportunity to prop himself into a sitting position, struggling with his slightly trembling limbs for a moment. The buzz of cocaine is wearing off into the thick, familiar adrenaline, and he bites his lip against the outpouring of words he longs to say. John’s back is entirely rigid; spine straight and shoulders squared with military precision. He seems to be struggling to breathe properly, and Sherlock feels the first curl of trepidation settle deeply in his gut.  

He clears his throat softly and shifts against the squeaking floorboards. “John, this isn’t what it looks like,” he says quietly, going for a tone of contrite innocence, but his voice is shaking too hard from the chemical soup thrumming through him.

“I should hope not,” John grits out, and Sherlock can tell his teeth are clenched. He desperately wishes he no longer had the drug in his system. It’s making his observations sloppy, and he needs a clear head right now, or he might fuck this up for good. “Because it looks like I just found you in a sodding _drug den_.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, trying to focus, but his vision blurs a little every time he moves. “Well, yes, John, but that’s hardly the most important thing here.”

“Oh?” John growls, and he finally turns around. Sherlock feels his breath catch at the light of fiery rage in John’s dark blue gaze. “Tell me, Sherlock Holmes, (Sherlock hisses at the name, glancing around swiftly, but nobody seems to have noticed) what _is_ the important thing, here, hmm? Because I’m _really_ struggling not to throw you out on your junkie arse right about now.”

Sherlock winces as though he’s been struck, his heart hammering an unpleasant tattoo against his ribs. “I’m on a case, John. Probably the most important case to date.”

“A _case_ ,” John spits, and gets to his feet; his whole body a study in barely contained restraint. His hands are clenching repeatedly and Sherlock is still not sure if he’s about to get pummeled into the ground. He tries to look sheepish, but John’s face just darkens further, so Sherlock drops the mask immediately.

“The case, John--”

“It’s always a bloody _case_ with you, isn’t it?” John grinds out, and Sherlock can tell he’s teetering dangerously on the edge of shouting. Sherlock stands as well and begins moving to the door. If they’re going to row, it’s not going to be in the middle of all these people.  Despite the circumstance, Sherlock cannot deny the thrill of warmth that seems to spread steadily from his chest outward as he hears John’s even footsteps behind him. He struggles to even his breathing, to keep the stupid, soppy grin from sliding onto his mouth. He knows neither is appropriate at the moment, so he grasps at the edges of his earlier melancholy; channeling the darker side of his loneliness into spite and anger. It’s _John’s_ fault he’s here in the first place, after all. If John hadn’t left him, he never would have ended up here in this pitiful, dilapidated house full of sorry people and their sorrier drugs.

He feels the calming rush of blame flood through him and turns suddenly on the landing, crowding into John’s space and looming over him in the way only he can; consciously making himself larger and more frightening. To his credit, John doesn’t back down, holding his ground and glaring right back into Sherlock’s face with such ferocity, Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” John demands, and he’s so close Sherlock can feel his angry breath fan across his cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes close of their own volition and he feels himself sway almost imperceptibly forward.

“Christ, you’re still high, aren’t you?” John huffs and Sherlock feels two warm, sturdy hands close none-too-gently around his biceps. He swallows audibly and tries to hold onto his earlier anger, but the feeling of John here, close enough to feel the heat of his body through their many layers of clothing, is making his head swim with want. He leans in farther and feels his chest press deliciously against John’s for one solid heartbeat before John’s fingers dig harshly into his shoulders and he’s pushed roughly away.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whispers, and hates how broken his voice sounds.

“Jesus fuck, Sherlock,” John growls and pushes him hard.

Sherlock stumbles backward and hits the wall, his eyes flying open in shocked rage. The sting of rejection should be familiar, but coming from John, it is completely unprecedented. He blinks slowly, trying to channel the hurt into anger, the pain into sarcasm. Painstakingly, he reconstructs his hard expression, feeling the familiar mask of cool indifference slide back into place across his face. He notes the small flash of pain that crosses through John’s eyes, but he cannot dwell on it now.

Huffing with righteous anger, Sherlock tugs the shoulder of his hoodie back up his arm and marches towards the fire door. He can hear John stomping behind him, anger and confusion laced clearly through every heavy footfall.

“I cannot believe you,” John is muttering, keeping pace with Sherlock’s long strides by sheer force of his wrath, evidently. Sherlock picks up the pace, suddenly wanting to be as far away from John as humanly possible. There’s a great swelling guilt starting to form at the base of his spine, and he absolutely refuses to let it swallow him again. He can still hear John’s rumbling accusations behind him when he finally hits the door, smashing through it hard enough to send it crashing off its hinges and onto the emergency stairs.

“For god’s _sake_ , John,” Sherlock shouts, anger and adrenaline fuelling his ire. “I’m on a _case_.”

He vaults himself over the railing and drops onto the skip, firmly ignoring the sound of John following him just as swiftly.

“A _month_. That’s all it took. _ONE_ ,” John grumbles somewhere above him.

“I’m working,” Sherlock grinds out. He can feel the ebb and flow of the cocaine receding the more John shouts at him.

“Sherlock Holmes in a drug den. How’s that gonna look?” John demands with a distinct air of incredulity.

“I’m undercover,” Sherlock grumbles, irritation ratcheting up the more John keeps at him.

“No you’re not!” John shouts, hopping onto the skip himself.

“Well, I’m not _now_ ,” Sherlock shouts back, recognizing how childish he sounds and frankly not giving a damn at the moment. John’s presence was meant to be comforting, but all he’s doing is making Sherlock’s head hurt. He desperately wants _his_ John back; all the caring, familiar exasperation, all the warmth and undeniable companionship. He wants the John Watson who would kill a man in cold blood just to save Sherlock’s life. This version of John is demanding and repellent. He almost wishes John had never found him.

He takes a deep breath and shoves his way into the back of Mary’s sedan, glancing over at the boy on the other side of the car. Before they can set out, the man from the stairwell stumbles forward, clutching his wrist to his chest and gazing imploringly at John through the windshield. John waves him to the back and Sherlock feels his face contort in shock before he huffs irritably and heaves himself towards the middle of the seat, squished and uncomfortable and suddenly, horribly claustrophobic.

“Alright, Shezza?” the man mumbles with a nod.

“‘Shezza’?” John asks with barely suppressed black humor.

“I _was_ undercover,” Sherlock spits, and he feels the man shift slightly beside him. He gazes steadily at the back of John’s head for a moment before he turns to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock glances at him briefly before shaking his head minutely. The man smirks and gives Sherlock a look that plainly says he’s aware of just who this gentleman is, and Sherlock feels his defenses crumble slightly at the admission. He hands Sherlock a handkerchief and Sherlock accepts it with a nod of thanks, swiping carelessly at the sweat along his brow and silently imploring the man to keep quiet. The man nods back with a quirk of his lips and settles himself further against the cushions.

“Seriously. ‘Shezza’, though?” Mary laughs and Sherlock catches her eye in the rear view mirror.

John fiddles with his phone for a moment before raising it to his ear, glaring at Sherlock with alarming self-satisfaction. “We’re not going home; we’re going to Bart’s. I’m calling Molly.”

“Why?” Mary’s voice catches Sherlock’s attention.

“Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar,” John grinds out with malicious satisfaction. Sherlock’s blood goes momentarily cold before his shoulders slump in defeat. The man at his side nudges him in the ribs and gives him a pointedly sympathetic look. Sherlock ignores him and tries to piece out how he’s going to get through this. John is going to be absolutely _livid_ if-- _when_ he confirms his suspicions. He has to emphasize the case: the most interesting thing to cross his path in _months_. Surely John will understand, once it’s explained to him. He _must_ understand.

It is possibly the most tedious car ride he’s ever had the misfortune to experience. By the time they arrive at Bart’s, the boy to Sherlock’s right is slumped against the window, sound asleep. The man to his left is still watching Sherlock with an air of distinct interest, and he keeps glancing between Sherlock and the back of John’s agitated head with a far too perceptive look. Sherlock himself is warring between intense, vitriolic anger, and fierce, aching misery. His head is pounding and he can actually see his hands start to tremble as he comes down.

John is the first one out of the car before Mary even comes to a full stop. He yanks open the door, dislodging Sherlock’s new friend before heaving him bodily out of the way.

“Oi!” the man grumbles, cradling his arm to his chest again and giving John a wide berth. He blinks up into the weak sunlight and seems to shrivel into his overlarge hoodie. Mary gently opens the door to his right and catches the boy before he can fall. Sherlock huffs and remains pointedly in the back seat, ignoring Mary’s pointed look and John’s increasingly violent gestures.

Finally, John sticks his torso back in the car and grabs Sherlock by the front of his hoodie, yanking him forward with remarkable strength. Sherlock tries valiantly to ignore the small thrill of arousal that pools in his belly, but John is still manhandling him through the open door and shoving him roughly against the side of the car before slamming the door closed and invading Sherlock’s personal space.

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath as John shoves him backwards, so close again he can feel John’s heaving chest against his own as he presses closer, bringing his face up to Sherlock’s in a way clearly meant to be intimidating.

“Everything alright?” Mary calls behind them.

“Perfectly fine,” John shouts back through clenched teeth. “Why don’t you bring the boys inside while Sherlock and I have a little _chat_.” Sherlock shivers involuntarily, and closes his eyes against the flood of unwelcome emotions. He vaguely hears Mary ushering the boy and the man inside, but all of his attention is arrested by the fierce look in John’s eye.

“You,” John grits out, finger pointed accusingly into Sherlock’s face, “Are a complete and utter _bastard_.”

Sherlock snorts a little, and realizes his mistake immediately as John’s face darkens and he becomes eerily calm. “I will not stand for this, Sherlock Holmes. If I find out you’ve done one sodding thing to that magnificent brain of yours, I’ll...” He falters momentarily, his eyes darting downward to Sherlock’s lips once before his gaze hardens again.

“What?” Sherlock growls, ignoring the way his blood seems to thrum faster in such proximity. John swallows audibly and shifts backwards slightly, clearly about to run from this. Sherlock grabs at his wrist hard and yanks him forward so he stumbles a little, catching himself on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You’ll _what_ , John?” Sherlock hisses into his face, suddenly so angry he’s spitting. “You’ll _leave_?”

John’s face blanks in shock for one solid heartbeat before he looks utterly slaughtered. A small part of Sherlock’s brain recoils at the words, but between the drugs, the adrenaline and the overwhelming _hurt_ still residing beneath his ribs, Sherlock’s had enough.

“I regret to inform you that’s not an option anymore, _John_ ,” Sherlock snarls and shoves him hard in the chest. John sways backwards enough that Sherlock can step quickly around him, tugging his hoodie closer around his body and absolutely refusing to look round.

He can hear John mutter something under his breath before he trots forward, catching Sherlock about the elbow and swinging him around.

“Do not for one _second_ blame this on me, Sherlock Holmes,” John growls out darkly. “I certainly didn’t force a needle into your arm. I’m not the one who left for two fucking _years_ without a single goddamned word. I’m not the one who _left_ , Sherlock. That was all you.”

They stand there for one breathless moment, both of them quivering with indignation before John’s shoulders seem to slump forward a little. He looks so defeated suddenly that it’s all Sherlock can do not to reach forward and hold him. The ache in his chest seems to pulse forward with sickening clarity, and Sherlock feels inexplicably nauseous.

John looks down at the minimal space between them, his jaw working around a multitude of unspoken words. Sherlock cannot help himself, and before he’s even aware of doing it, his right hand comes up to rest at the juncture of John’s shoulder, thumb smoothing over the skin at the nape of his neck.

John sighs shakily, but his eyes when he looks up are hard-edged and quietly furious. “You left me first, you fucking arsehole, so don’t you _dare_ tell me this was my fault.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes, his own eyes closing in defeat. He’s physically and emotionally exhausted, and touching John in this way is draining him of what little strength he has left. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. Apologize later, you twat, because I have a feeling I’m not going to like these test results.”

Sherlock huffs out a pathetic, wet sounding laugh. “Oh, I am certain you’re going to loathe them.”

John’s neck bows forward and he rests his head against Sherlock’s sweaty curls. “Christ, Sherlock. One sodding _month_. How can I ever trust you again after this?”

Sherlock rubs his thumb against the soft skin at John’s neck before he lifts his face a little and presses his lips to John’s forehead. “You can’t,” Sherlock whispers and squeezes his eyes shut tight.

John sighs and pulls away slowly, blinking his eyes open and gazing into Sherlock’s face for what feels like far too long. It seems he comes to a decision, however, because he leans up and brushes his lips gently against the very corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock freezes, all the air suddenly sucked from his lungs as something warm and dangerous unfurls beneath his ribs. John offers him a small smile and pulls himself away, opening the door and gesturing Sherlock in with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock stands there blinking at him for a moment, too many emotions and too much data swirling through him at once. He takes a deep breath and steps forward, stopping just past John and glancing back at him over his shoulder.

“John,” he murmurs, and John looks up at him expectantly, “Thank you.”

John’s face softens for the briefest second before he visibly grits his teeth and pulls the door shut behind him. “Alright, you bloody git. Let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock nods once and forces his feet to move along the corridor. He might not have John permanently anymore, but he’s here now, and that’s all that matters for the moment. Sherlock lets the knowledge sink in, focuses on the lingering warmth of John’s lips and allows himself to breathe in a sigh of relief. If he has nothing else, at least he still has this, and that’s another form of oblivion.

Sherlock smiles softly and mounts the stairs to the lab, the sound of John’s steady breathing behind him the only thing to ever keep him fully grounded.

 

 

_When oblivion is calling out your name,  
You always take it further than I ever can._

_~Oblivion, Bastille_


End file.
